


Herding Sheep

by KissedByNightshade



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Nonbinary!Robin, Other, Personal Growth, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissedByNightshade/pseuds/KissedByNightshade
Summary: Little promises, made in the dark.





	Herding Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little drabble. Robin probably overthinks things more than anyone else in the Shepherds. My Robin is nonbinary and uses they/them.

“Robin?”

There are nights when the burden is heavier than others.

“Robin, I know you’re awake.”

They sigh and ease themselves upright. “How did you know?”

Their back is to Chrom, but they can picture him easily enough — framed by darkness, the still air of the camp whistling between tents. He will be in his pajamas by now, blue cloth covering his legs but leaving his chest bare, save for a blanket. His eyes will droop from drowsiness, just so, and he will be alone, and unarmed.

For the umpteenth time, Robin will consider telling Chrom not to walk around by himself, that he’s _important_ , but they reject the thought as ever.

“When you fall asleep, your head lolls to the side,” Chrom tells them, bare feet crunching against the ground as he approaches. “Or you end up with your face on your books.”

They stare at said books, at the crude map of a hypothetical battlefield. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

“I could have told you that myself.” Still they don’t stand up. The gentle nickering of horses and chirping of crickets reassures them that everything is in order, but the effort to move is too much. “Chrom, go to bed, okay? I’m almost done here.”

A petty lie never hurt anyone, they decide, and make eye contact with the Exalt of Ylisse at last. Chrom’s eyes are so big and so blue you could drown in them, almost as dark under the glow of lamplight as his hair. They’re the kind of eyes that earn the trust of villagers and mercenaries and thieves and amnesiacs. The eyes of a man who can lead them into battle, and take them out again.

And that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Robin’s job is to set them up like pawns on a chess board, to weigh one life over another. Chrom’s job is much, much harder — it’s he who convinces them all to fight, to put their lives on the line as he sees fit… and to bring the whole of them out again. The body, the mind. The soul. To find the broken places left by battle, and piece them all back together again.

Some shepherd, indeed.

“I’m not moving until you come with me,” Chrom declares, crossing his arms and looming as much as a man of five-foot-ten can loom. “We’re marching in the morning. We can’t have our genius tactician falling out of the saddle.”

“Well, a fine load of good it will do if the Exalt is doing the same,” Robin says. Though Chrom does have a point; it would be embarrassing at least, and devastating at worst. What kind of army would trust their tactician to throw them into battle, when said tactician can’t even get a full night of sleep?

“Then I suppose you had best ensure that neither of us is falling asleep on the job.” Chrom’s hand is an anchor on Robin’s back, fingers warm against the fabric of the cloak tossed over their shoulders. “C’mon, Robin. For me.”

Chrom has that soft smile again, one that they can never quite make sense of. It seems to be reserved for moments of quiet, just the two of them — but maybe they are reading into it. Some tactician they are, without an inkling of insight into Chrom’s motives. Perhaps the two of them are too different, and they will never understand him.

Nevertheless. “Alright,” they say at last. They can’t ignore a personal plea from him so easily. The tactician’s cloak is hung on the back of the chair, and the map is neatly folded, ready to pack with the tomes at a moment’s notice.

It is cold outside the tent. Robin shivers in the moonlight — a waxing crescent, almost as white as their hair. Late as it is, few are awake; just a couple of guards posted at opposite corners. They can hear soft rustling from the tents, most likely the turbulent sleeping of their comrades.

Chrom puts a hand on their shoulder, guides them down the line of tents. “Promise me. No more studying tonight, okay?”

They nod. “You should be asleep as well, milord.”

Chrom gets a funny look on his face then, though perhaps it is a trick of the light. “Robin… we’ve known each other long enough. You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

They try to quirk a smile in return, but the effect feels muted. Lopsided, as though half their face is numb. “I know, but I respect you. I want to call you that.”

“Well, perhaps you should respect me enough to call me by my real name.” Robin can’t tell what he is hiding, beneath that benevolence and that amiable expression. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. “You need your sleep. No more thinking, either.”

“Be safe, Chrom,” they say as he walks away.

They stand outside their tent until he disappears into his own. And then they go inside, wondering all the while whether Chrom realizes just how much of a lynchpin he truly is.


End file.
